Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

‘The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.’
- J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Wednesday, 1 Sept., 1999

“It’s Harry Potter!”

“Look!”


It was finally his last year.


“Ohmygosh! It’s really him!”


He should’ve known this would happen. He really should have.


“D’you think he’ll give me his autograph?”

“Go ask him!”


He had anticipated it, but also stupidly hoped that he could somehow avoid it.


“Did he really kill You-Know-Who with Expelliarmus?”

“He did! Saw it with my own eyes.”


He’d so desperately been looking forward to being a normal teenager.

Or at least what could be considered normal for him; no one trying to kill him, no horcruxes to hunt, no fate of the world hanging over his head, no one putting him on a pedestal – just a teenager trying to finish school and avoid having to think about what the rest of his life might be like.

That’s it. That’s all he wanted.

But of course nothing could be that simple for Harry Potter.

As if the gawks, stares, whispers, and asks for his autograph at the Welcome Feast weren’t enough, or adjusting to living in a new dormitory with Sixth and Seventh Years from all four Houses, there was a mandatory new class.

Professional Development.

The professor was currently MIA and the description they were given with their class schedules at dinner wasn’t helpful – something about Career Development, Personal Development, personal and professional skills, and a whole lot of other words and phrases Harry didn’t understand.

Anxiety pooled in his stomach.

The Personal Development category included terms like life skills, personal development, emotional intelligence and regulation (‘Well, I’m screwed there,’ he thought), anger management (‘Maybe now that I’m not a bloody horcrux’.), stress management (‘Coulda used that in First Year to help with the whole fighting-a-war thing.’), communication skills (Internal laughter), relationship building (‘Doomed’), and so many other things that filled him with dread. Including the next category.

Career Development included interpersonal and intrapersonal skills and development in the workforce, leadership development, career goals (‘Auror. There. Done.’), team bonding (‘I’m about as good at bonding as I am with a blast-ended skrewt’), networking, and career planning. Plus a bunch of other words he didn’t have the energy to process.

His dread had dread.

Cue existential crisis.

Of course Hermione understood. She’d said at dinner that it was to help them transition into the workforce, or something, and that he shouldn’t be so anxious about it because they already had the base for a lot of these skills from previous years. “That’s why it’s important to pay attention and actually do your homework. Besides, it’s just a class. You’ve faced worse.”

“Well excuse me for not being allowed the chance to learn them because I was too busy being chased by a psychopath who wanted me dead,” he’d said bitterly. She’d looked both affronted and sheepish at the same time. “Sorry.” She was, too.

She had her own gripes about the class, anyway; she really couldn’t give him and Ron shit for complaining.

“There won’t even be a NEWT for it! And the professor isn’t even here, yet!” But she supported the class, despite her hangups. Everyone else for that matter seemed quite put out.

She did have a point, though. He battled a seventy-something-year-old Dark Wizard at seventeen and won. A class about personal growth, working as a team, and careers should be easy… right?

Except there was the small problem of being treated like an emotionally stunted house elf for the first eleven years of his life and then as a soldier to fight one of the most powerful Dark Mages in history for the next seven – just to find out he had to die at the end as a sacrificial lamb, which Dumbledore had known about the entire time. Harry had worried about his life and the fate of the world for seven years. He didn’t have time to learn everything he was supposed to in school! Besides, he had years of combat experience. He was a shoe-in for an Auror. If he didn’t do that, what good was he?

Well, there was Quidditch, he supposed. But that was a boy’s fantasy, and not what the world wanted from war hero Harry Potter.

Rather than the usual two Houses per class, all Seventh Years would be together. For House unity, supposedly. Harry briefly wondered how the school would do this class in future. The current Seventh Years were reduced to fifty-something thanks to the war – the Sixth Years to about sixty-something – but each year was supposed to have roughly two hundred students with each House divided into two time slots for classes. The student count would only grow now that Voldemort was dead. But that didn’t concern him; he was just spiralling.

What did concern him was that the class met every Friday morning at 9 am. 

“Splendid,” Ron had groaned. “We have nothing else on Fridays! This royally sucks.”

But the real kicker was having more homework added to the obscene amount of work that NEWTs required. Harry had no idea how he was going to get through this year with any Outstandings at all, let alone Exceeds Expectations. He needed five to become an Auror, and he wasn’t about to give up Quidditch. How they were expected to work this hard in school after fighting a bloody war, he didn’t know.

He hoped the professor was friendly, at least. The last thing he needed was to have another shitty teacher. They wouldn’t find out who it was until Friday; their professor wasn’t at Hogwarts, yet. Which had Hermione in an uproar about professionalism.

“But. I still firmly believe it’ll be good for us,” she said to them that night in their new common room. “Particularly for Muggleborns, but really all of us because you were right at dinner, Harry; the war took so much from everyone. We could sorely use help adjusting to life and transitioning into careers.”

“I’m a shit leader,” Harry grumbled. He hadn’t noticed it had gotten pretty quiet. “And I’m shit at everything else on this list. Ask anyone how well I work with a team. You’ve always had to bully me into letting you help me. No class is gonna change that, Mione.”

He heard a few snickers to his right and winced when he realised everyone in the room probably heard him. He glanced over; it was Seamus and Zacharias Smith, the former on the couch with his legs in Dean’s lap and the latter playing chess by the fire with Theodore Nott. Nott, bless him, had no traces of amusement on his face.

At least Seamus had the decency to look guilty. “Er, sorry, mate.”

Harry shrugged through his sheepish embarrassment at being heard. “It’s okay.”

“He said it out loud, Finnegan,” Smith said haughtily. “About himself. Besides, it’s true. He’s a terrible leader. At least he can admit that.”

Well, yeah, Harry knew that. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to hear. Especially when spoken so harshly.

“Whether he is or isn’t doesn’t mean you have to go an’ be a dick about it,” Seamus shot back. “We’ve all been t’rough a war but Harry’s had it worse than any of us. Cut the shite.” He’d become fiercely protective of Harry since the Battle. It was both nice and overwhelming at the same time.

“Exactly. We’ve all been through a war that he was supposed to lead, and he did a piss-poor job.”

Ginny stood with a murderous look on her face, but everyone was saved from her wrath by the chess game.

“Knight to A7,” came Nott’s voice. “Checkmate.”

“WHAT?! HOW?!”

“Keep your bloody voice down, Smith,” came a cold, posh voice from somewhere across the room. “You’re in a common area, not a canteen.”

Harry hadn’t known Malfoy was there. He definitely hadn't been when the trio sat down. Or had he? The corner Malfoy was sitting in with a few other Slytherins was quite dark, and Harry had been distracted since long before the Sorting. He supposed it was possible to have overlooked him even though he’d been looking for blond hair since King’s Cross.

Malfoy’s voice was as icy as it used to be, but it sent a soft wave of warmth through him. Maybe because it wasn’t directed at him for once, and instead at someone else who was antagonising him. Harry wasn’t stupid; he knew it wasn’t in defence of him. But it still felt nice.

“Defending Potter now, Malfoy? That’s a new low for you. Though I guess it makes sense, since he’s the only reason you’re not in Azkaban,” Smith spat.

“He’s not the only reason,” Ginny seethed through bared, clenched teeth. 

Smith sneered. “Right, your family defended Malfoy at the trials – I forgot because of how utterly deranged that was.”

Ginny balled her fists at her side. “Shut the fuck up, Smith.”

“Or what? You’ll punch me?”

“Maybe,” she answered threateningly.

He barked with laughter. “I’d like to see you try.”

Harry’s anger flared and Ron stood so violently that he knocked over his chair with a bang, but Malfoy beat them to the punch – no pun intended. “If you had even one infinitesimal shred of skill to read the room, Smith, you would notice that nobody here cares about your childish tantrum and most of them want you to shut up. Save yourself some dignity before someone decides to do it for you.”

Smith opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. Everyone looked at Ginny, but she looked as surprised as he was. He silently yelled some more, then stormed through the door to the boys’ rooms.

No one but a select few Slytherins and Harry noticed Malfoy’s faint smirk.

“Good riddance,” Nott said as if he were talking about the weather. He glanced over at Neville, who was sitting with Luna. “Do you play?”

Harry hadn’t noticed how fast his heart was beating until everything had calmed down. He felt lightheaded and panicked, partially from Ron’s chair. He was very glad he was sitting, and for the sudden weight of Hermione’s hand on his arm, grounding him.

He also hadn’t noticed the pair of grey eyes observing him from across the room.

–

Friday, 3 Sept., 9am

Their professor was unusually young for Hogwarts teachers, and unusually casual.

He was perched on the edge of his desk in jeans, a long sleeve button-down, trainers, and a fang dangling from his right ear. Sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his long, dark red hair was pulled back in a messy bun. He smiled warmly as students filed in and paid no mind to the lingering stares that were directed at the scars on his face.

When the trio arrived – late, to Hermione’s chagrin – Ron’s jaw practically hit the floor.

“Bill!” Hermione exclaimed with a bright smile. Then she composed herself, sheepishly covering her mouth with both hands. “Oh! Sorry, um – Professor?”

Just like that, her gripes about the professor went out the window. Good, Harry thought. Maybe it would also distract her from her barrage of complaints about him and Ron running late that morning. 

Bill laughed. “It’s alright, Hermione. I actually prefer that no one call me ‘Professor’, though I won’t be upset if anyone does. I also wouldn’t want anyone who knows me personally to suddenly have to call me something different. Hi, Harry. Ron.”

Harry beamed, despite his anxiety about getting used to a new class. This was Bill; he’d be fine. “Hey, Bill. Nice surprise.”

Poor Ron’s face was as red as a ripe tomato. He loved his brothers, but Harry knew Ron would hate to have them as a professor. Ron also tended to take things very personally and would likely be angry that Bill didn’t tell him about his new job.

The three of them found seats at a table closer to the back of the room near the Slytherins while Harry counted the seconds it would take for Ron to explode.

“Can you believe this?” Ron whispered angrily as soon as they sat down; twenty-seven seconds later, Harry mused. “Woulda been nice to know my own brother was going to be my professor! ”

“Oh honestly, Ron. I’m sure he has good reasons,” Hermione scoffed.

“Says the one who wouldn’t bloody well shut up about how unprofessional it was for the professor to not—ow!” He rubbed his arm where she’d pinched him.

“He has werewolf-afflicted hearing!” she whispered.

Once everyone was seated, Bill clapped his hands together. “Right! Welcome. I’m Bill. ‘Professor’ is fine if using my first name feels uncomfortable for you. Sorry I couldn’t be here for the Feast; had some affairs I needed to get in order as I took on this job at the last minute.”

Hermione sent Ron a pointed look. He glared back.

“Now, I know how much stress NEWTs cause so I want to clear up a few things. First, this class won’t even have a quarter as much work as your others, and there’s no exam.” He smiled at the sighs of relief that followed. “I know this is a lot to take in and that it’s an extra hour and a half every week of your time, but it’s important. Frankly, it should have been part of the curriculum for decades. It’ll help you prepare for life after school and help you find apprenticeships, training programs, or whatever else depending on your interests.”

Bill continued, seemingly unaware of how many students now had instant crushes on him. “You’ll be graded, of course. Most career paths now require at least an Acceptable for this class. Some require Exceeds. But it’s quite easy if you put in the work. I’m an easy-going person, but I won’t accept shoddy assignments.”

A murmur spread across the classroom as students began taking notes and muttering with their neighbours.

“Before I go over the material we’ll cover, I want to make something very clear: I will not tolerate prejudice or bullying.” That got everyone’s attention back on him. A few heads turned to glance at the Slytherins. “Including those who target Slytherins for being Slytherins. I won’t put anyone on the spot, but I will act accordingly if I see something cruel. I want you all to transition into your lives and careers with a newfound thought process – starting with eradicating prejudiced and bullying behaviours.”

The Slytherins glanced at each other. They were surprised, though wary. This professor was a Weasley, after all.  

“Practice re-training your brains. Catch yourselves when you're being judgemental, acknowledge it, and work on stopping it from happening again. It’s a difficult process, but necessary for moving forward. Especially after the war. Now…” Bill launched into an explanation of the topics they would cover and put them on the board behind him.

“Your first assignment is due on the twenty-ninth of October. You will choose someone from your year whom you have misunderstood and write them a letter. Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” he said over a bunch of groans. “If you wanna choose someone in Sixth Year, come to me first. The theme is ‘self-reflection’, but the content of the letter is open for interpretation. This doesn’t have to be the person you’ve misunderstood the most. It can be anyone, as long as there has been a significant misunderstanding – whether they know about it or not. It could be an apology, an observation of your assumptions about them and what you’ve learned that differs from those assumptions, or something else entirely.

“If you choose an apology, it shouldn’t be a simple, ‘I’m sorry for this thing I did’. It should be introspective, insightful, and include the basics of who, what, when, where, why, and how. Why are you writing this? Why do you feel this way? What happened? How did it happen? How did you feel? How did it change? How do you feel now and why? Etcetera.”

Mouths opened and hands rose, but he put up a hand to hold off the impending cacophony. “I realise the instructions are loose and therefore can be confusing to those who need explicit details. If you need to talk to me about it, come to my office hours. I just want to say a few more things before I take questions. This letter is supposed to be reflective and creative. You can approach it from many different angles and there aren’t really any wrong ways to do it – just don’t turn in a short, sloppy attempt. I only graduated nine years ago; I know BS when I see it.”

That got a laugh. Most of the hands went down. While Bill answered questions, Harry felt anxiety curling in his gut again. Murmurs were picking up around him and getting louder. Some people were groaning or protesting to their friends. The Slytherins seemed oddly quiet while speaking softly amongst each other. They looked more apprehensive than anything.

He glanced around the room.

Hermione was furiously scribbling notes. Ron was being dramatic; “This is stupid. There is literally no one I want to write to.” Seamus had his head in his hands. Neville looked nauseous. Parkinson looked like she wanted to disappear into her seat and kept stealing glances at Harry as if he wouldn’t notice. Michael Corner mirrored the Slytherin apprehension. Padma and Parvati seemed intrigued. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott were whispering intensely to each other. Justin Finch-Fletchley sent Harry nervous side-eye, which Harry assumed was because of Second Year when he’d been accused of setting a snake on him.

Then his eyes landed on the person he already knew he’d be writing to.

Malfoy showed no visible reaction. His face was the perfect mask of cool, calm, and collected. But Harry knew better now than to judge based on outward appearances. He’d seen Malfoy scared at the trials. He’d seen him sobbing in Myrtle’s bathroom. He’d seen him gaunt, pale, sickly, and malnourished. He’d seen recognition in his eyes just before Malfoy lied to his aunt; ‘I can’t be sure.’ He’d heard about the things Malfoy did for students during the year the trio had missed.

He knew there was so much more to Draco Malfoy than what the Slytherin let people see. And he knew Malfoy was just as anxious as he was.

Harry’s heart was beating so rapidly that Lavender, now equipped with afflicted hearing like Bill, glanced around the room for the source until her eyes found his. Her brows rose in silent question. ‘Are you okay?’ she seemed to ask. He nodded. Her expression turned sceptical, but she went back to taking notes.

Bill witnessed their interaction with a smile.

Harry understood the importance and purpose of the assignment, but it had great potential to humiliate people and possibly cause negative interactions. It had potential to bring people closer, too, but they’d all just been through a war. Everyone was either on edge, battling depression, battling PTSD, having nightmares, dealing with other issues, or a combination of those things. Some, like himself, were battling all of that and then some.

Bill dismissed them with, “Come to class next week with a list of careers that sound interesting to you.”

‘Great,’ Harry thought bitterly. ‘That leaves me with… Auror.’ Because he refused to let himself dream of playing professional Quidditch.

–

10:30am

Draco had also immediately known who he would be writing to. There was a large number of people he could choose from because of his behaviour and the things he’d done, but this one deserved his letter leaps and bounds over everyone else. Even Potter.

He sent Potter a letter last year to thank him for his testimonies at the Malfoy trials. Potter spared everyone a lot of time and aggravation by giving the Wizengamot his memories prior to the court date and a statement in the courtroom the day of. Even with Draco’s memories and a sworn oath under Veritaserum, most people likely wouldn’t have believed that he and his mother deserved to go free without punishment. But they trusted Potter’s word. Well, most did.

Draco and Narcissa were put under one year of house arrest and Lucius was kept in the DMLE’s holding cells for further questioning; he had offered to provide information to help round up Voldemort’s remaining followers. Secretly, Draco hoped his father wouldn’t be freed.

He pushed those thoughts away and made for the door.

“Oh, Draco?” Bill called.

Draco stopped and looked up. Pansy almost ran straight into him and squeaked an affronted sound. “Yes?”

“Could you stay back a few minutes? If you have time?”

A few students snickered. Draco’s eyes flicked towards the sound for a brief moment before landing back on his professor, face slightly flushed from embarrassment. “Yes, Sir.”

Draco’s friends, who were gathered around him, had been about to retort but Bill beat them to it.

“Oi, knock it off. Did I not talk about this in class? He’s not in trouble but even if he was, it’s nobody's business but his. Get a move-on before I dock points, and keep in mind that there are hundreds of reasons for a teacher to ask someone to stay after class.” He turned his attention back to Draco. “There’s no need to call me Sir, by the way. Unless it’s what you’re comfortable with.”

Draco decided that he might like this new professor. He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and relaxed his muscles, which had contracted the moment Bill asked to talk to him.

Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Greg, and Daphne all had varying stages of worry on their faces. “He really isn’t in trouble,” Bill told them gently. “It’s nothing bad. Promise.”

Draco nodded to them. “I’ll catch up.”

Pansy spoke first; she’d always been the most outspoken of their group. “No offence, Professor, it’s just that—”

“Pans,” Draco warned lightly.

Bill held up a hand. “It’s okay. I want you guys to speak up when something’s worrying you. I won’t take points off for being concerned about a friend. Do you prefer Pansy or Miss Parkinson?”

Pansy was clearly thrown off by Bill. He was very much outside the norm and she didn’t know how to navigate him. “Pansy’s… alright, I suppose. We’re just protective of Draco, you see. Even if you’re not prejudiced, your families, well…”

“Ah, the feud,” Bill commented lightly. His kind eyes found Draco’s. “That ends with this generation. Especially now that the war is over.” He was satisfied when Draco nodded. “I’ve always found it ridiculous, to be honest,” he told Pansy. “There’s simply something I’d like to speak with him about. And no offence taken.”

She nodded stiffly.

Once they were alone with the door closed, Bill put up privacy spells and sent Draco a kind smile. “I hope this isn’t too intrusive. Please forgive me if it is. As you know, Dark Magic leaves traces, even after the caster dies.”

Oh. Draco’s face paled when he realised where this was going.

“I thought your Mark might have some. I wanted to offer to take a look for you. I’ll be honest; I’m not sure what I can do if it does, but I could run some diagnostics, at least. Make sure it’s not harming you. I also have contacts who are more experienced than I am and can advise me without giving them too many details. Is that something you might be interested in?”

Draco was quiet for a few more moments, just trying to process what was happening. “You’d do that? For me?” he asked quietly, sceptical. “Despite everything I’ve done?” Weasley’s expression changed to one of concern, but Draco was no fool and his wariness of people had heightened significantly since the war. There had to be a catch. Something Weasley wanted.

“Of course.” Bill sighed. “Look – I’m gonna speak to you as just me, right now. Not your professor. I hold nothing against you, Draco. Or, I guess I should call you Malfoy.”

Draco’s disposition shifted when Bill began talking to him as a regular person. As a Weasley. Before the Final Battle, he would have sneered and used a cutting tone. But that’s not who he was, anymore. Still, he wasn’t exactly polite now that Weasley shed that role. “I suppose,” he drawled.

“Well then, Malfoy, the past is the past. Whatever happened in the war wasn’t your fault.”

“Some of it was definitely my fault,” Draco interrupted. “Including what happened to you.” His tone had a harder edge, somewhat challenging – not polite, but not venomous, either.

Bill sighed again. “I know the things you did. I also know you were forced to do them.”

“I could’ve said no.”

“If you had, you and your parents would’ve been tortured and killed.”

Draco couldn’t help the snort that escaped. “You wouldn’t have done those things if you’d been in my situation, Weasley.” The way he spat Bill’s last name was sort of a test to see how he’d react. To his surprise, Weasley’s expression remained kind.

“You don’t know that. And neither do I. But I do know that I would do anything to keep my family safe. I also know that you should’ve been offered help as soon as Voldemort returned.” Bill felt rage and protectiveness bubble up. He usually kept his fury about Dumbledore’s actions buried deep, but it was palpable. And right now, it wasn’t staying down. “Dumbledore knew your family would be targeted and he should have done something about it. Especially when he found out about the task you were given.”

The anger that suddenly appeared in Weasley’s voice surprised Draco, because it was anger for him instead of at him. It sounded like the oldest Weasley was angry with Dumbledore, as preposterous as that was, and Draco didn’t know how to respond to that. So he didn’t, save for the slight raise of his brows.

“I don’t fault you for what you’ve done. Even this.” He pointed to the scars on his face. “Or Dumbledore’s death, which he orchestrated anyway. It’s easily forgiven, at least by me. We’ve all been through hell, Malfoy. But if I’m honest, I personally think that those who were on Voldemort’s side unwillingly had it a hell of a lot worse. Not that it’s a contest.”

Draco’s eyes widened again – they seemed to be doing that a lot with this Weasley – then furrowed as he tried to process what Weasley just said. His defences had risen from his habit of bristling whenever anything even remotely like pity was directed at him, and he was struggling to contain it. Weasley seemed to pick up on that.

“That’s not pity, I promise. I also believe the Wizengamot was out of line with your trial, but that’s neither here nor there. I really just want to help you. I was planning on offering Harry the same. Dark Magic is powerful; I know you know that. As a Cursebreaker, I’ve seen it do some awful things, even the remnants it leaves behind. Even centuries later. I don’t want it affecting you, and in the chance that it is, I’d like to at least try to help you get rid of it.”

All traces of bristling were gone. Draco was honestly touched, and doing everything in his power to not show it. But Weasley was werewolf-afflicted so there really wasn’t much hiding he could do. Plus, the strength of his walls has been slowly failing lately and he just didn’t have the energy to keep them up.

He’d had so much fiery energy before Sixth Year. So much passion and zest. Then it was gradually sucked out of him, starting with receiving the news that he would be given the Mark. He’d started that year off extremely traumatised and spent it living in fear for his parents, his friends, himself, and the world. He’d even thought about offing himself a few times; he desperately didn’t want to live in a world ruled by Voldemort. He’d only done the things he’d done because he had no other choice; Weasley was right. Could he have asked Potter and Dumbledore for help? Sure. But it came with an enormous risk as his parents were being watched day in and day out.

Now he was stained. Marked. Scarred. And always would be. Not even removing all traces of Dark Magic from his body would fix that.

“Think on it?”

Weasley’s voice brought him back to the present, and all Draco could do was nod and murmur, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Bill watched the door long after it closed behind Draco, worry creasing his brow. The Slytherin looked like a shell of his former self, but Bill knew better. There was a deep kindness in Draco’s heart, only visible to those who knew him best – and those with werewolf senses. The blond's scent betrayed the empty mask he wore. He wondered if Draco even knew that, and hoped this class would help him figure out who he was now that he didn’t have a war hanging over his head.

–

Saturday, 4 Sept., 12pm

Malfoy, M, DM, Malfoy,

Firstly, I’m not expecting you to even open this, let alone read it. Secondly, you don’t have to reply if you do read it. At all. In fact, please save me the humiliation. I just need to say these things and then I’ll be out of your hair forever.

I think you’re the one I’ve misunderstood the most. Though maybe that’s because I don’t understand myself; I don’t know. I’ve hurt you over and over and over again. And I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.

Harry had to take a break from writing for some deep breaths and to wipe away the sudden and unwelcome tears that accosted his face. He felt stupid because he hadn’t even written that much yet. But this was emotional, and he knew it would get deep and painful. That was what he’d been dreading about this assignment.

I know my rejection of your friendship in the very beginning wasn’t wrong was because of how you treated Ron  was understandable  wasn’t unfounded, but I’m still sorry it hurt upset hurt you and that I didn’t react better. I was so desperate for friends back then. I latched onto Ron because he was my first friend; I’d never had any before him.

He shook his head and sighed. This was harder than he’d thought it would be, and he’d thought it would be next to impossible.

I’ve said such unforgivably cruel things to you, and about you. I’ve accused you of awful things without any proof. I’ve made your life hell, particularly during Sixth Year.

He chewed on his lip as he wrote more, scratched some of it out, and then chose to write a stream of consciousness over throwing his quill. And maybe switch it out for a damn pen. He’d decide later what to keep.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve done the same; I did those things without knowing what you were going through. I assumed you were a spoiled, selfish brat who had everything handed to him and I never thought that your life could possibly be painful or hard. And that’s really shitty of me, especially considering you made assumptions about me that were wrong and drove me insane.

I fucking hate this assignment.

I don’t want to dig up painful memories for you but I have to say these things because you deserve to hear them. Or, er, read them.

Come the fuck on, Harry. It’s just a damn letter and he’s just Malfoy.

But that’s the problem. I care too much about him. And I don’t even fucking know why.

I think my biggest regret, the thing I hate most about myself, is what I did to you in Myrtle’s bathroom.

He had to stop again. His nose stung. He’d had another nightmare about that bathroom last night. More tears slipped down his cheeks and onto the letter that he would have to re-do. This wasn’t the final copy after all, and he absolutely could not have any tear stains on it when it was delivered. He’d never be able to show his face anywhere ever again.

He knew he shouldn’t have worked on this in the common room. If he was subtle enough, he could wipe his face, get past the few people in front of the fire, and get upstairs without anyone noticing his tears.

But that was not Harry Potter’s luck.

The very subject of his letter came through the dormitory door just as Harry was about to, and more tears had fallen on his walk over there. Malfoy stopped short, eyes wide from nearly colliding with him. “Sorry – Potter?” His eyes dropped to Harry’s cheeks and back up.

Shit. Malfoy saw the tears. Harry’s eyes were probably red, too. He forced himself to chuckle. “Ah, heh, Wheezes candy – George sent me a care package and I – stupidly didn’t read the label.” He sniffed, blinked a few times, and shook his head. “Apparently this one makes you cry for five minutes. Don’t mind me. Sorry for – almost running you over.” He moved around the blond and escaped.

He had absolutely no idea how he’d been able to think on the spot like that because that was not his forte. He just hoped it was believable. Blaming something on WWW candy wasn’t a stretch, but he was Harry Potter, shit liar extraordinaire. How he’d faked being dead long enough to fool Voldemort was a complete mystery to him.

–

‘Well that was… odd,’ Draco thought. He at least knew very well to stay away from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes brand candy, and he never ate or drank anything anyone gave him; a habit he’d formed just before Sixth Year. He had a sneaking suspicion that Potter hadn’t been crying from candy. He shoved the emotion away that snuck up on him from seeing Potter in tears and left for a library homework session with his friends.

As he approached their table he heard Pansy ask Blaise, “Who are you going to write to?”

Draco would miss this spot. It was near the back wall next to an enormous floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the lake. They’d claimed it in their first year, and ever since then, anyone sitting there when they approached hurriedly got up and left. Sometimes – on very few occasions – it paid off to be in Slytherin.

Blaise hummed and nodded a silent greeting at Draco. “I don’t know. I should probably choose Potter, but I haven’t had many interactions with him. The assignment is about introspection in the way of better understanding people we’ve misunderstood by examining ourselves, but I can’t think of anyone I’ve misunderstood – oh.” He cocked his head. “I think I just figured it out.”

“Who?” Daphne asked, but Blaise shook his head.

“Not telling. Greg?”

Daphne and Pansy made annoyed sounds of protest.

“Same about Potter,” said Greg. “More than you, but still. The biggest interaction I had with him was when he saved our lives.” His throat had tightened on the last word as he glanced at Draco. He felt Pansy’s hand on his arm and shot her a weak, grateful smile; the Fiendfyre often featured in his nightmares. “I suppose that was Weasley really, but it was Potter who insisted.”

“Ugh,” Pansy groaned. “I should choose Potter, too.”

“Well we can’t all choose him,” Daphne told them. “The poor sod doesn’t need to read a ton of letters from his former rivals. Thankfully, I have even less to do with him than Blaise. Out of all of us, Draco should have dibs. No offence, Dray.” Draco just shrugged and went back to what he was writing; she wasn’t wrong. “Do you know who you’ll write to? Or are you not telling anyone?”

Draco glanced up when no one answered and realised that Greg had asked him that question. “I’m not working on that, today. I’m not even thinking about it for at least a week. There’s too much I need to get done first and I need to get Outstandings on at least five NEWTs.” He had, in fact, already chosen someone but he wasn’t going to tell anyone. Unless the recipient told her friends, no one would ever know and he planned on keeping it that way.

“As roundabout an answer as ever,” Blaise teased.

“I think I’ll write to Neville,” Theo chimed in.

There was a quiet chorus of ‘oooooh’ from Pansy, Blaise, and Greg. Blaise waggled his brows at his friend and teased, “Neville, ey? On a first name basis, now?”

Theo threw a balled up piece of parchment at him, missing him by about a foot and making him laugh. “Shut up, you sod.”

Blaise opened the crumpled parchment and read in a dramatic tone, “My dearest Nev, I have misunderstood thee for the entirety of our Hogwarts years and have come to the realisation that I am in lo—OW!” A textbook swatted his arm that time.

“There’s nothing but a crossed-out name written on there, you absolute wanker,” Theo growled, though he wasn’t mad. Teasing was one of the ways they showed love for each other.

“Then why are you blushing, Romeo?” Blaise asked him.

Theo bit his thumb at Blaise, who laughed and waited for what he knew was coming. Sure enough, a few moments later, Theo went on a rant that he legitimately couldn’t control. “Also, there are countless other romantic heroes who make infinitely better examples than a teenaged, lovesick sod who went and killed himself over the faked non-death of his teenage wife, whom he married the day after they met.”

Blaise muffled his cackling and Draco couldn’t help the pull at the corners of his mouth. But it was short-lived. His heart gave a pang for Crabbe, who used to argue with Theo about Romeo and Juliet. The memory was about as unwelcome as a knife stabbed right through his heart.

They had all loved Vince, but he’d turned out to be a bad apple. A Crabbe-apple, as Pansy liked to sneer. He’d convinced them all that he was like them, but in the end, it became clear that the Dark Lord took priority over his friends. It felt like the story of Pettigrew and put a bad taste in Draco’s mouth. He took a subtle deep breath so the others wouldn’t suspect he was hurting, then forced thoughts of his former friend, who had very nearly killed both him and Greg, out of his mind. Theo and Blaise’s bickering made that fairly easy to do.

“Is that why you bit your thumb at me?” Blaise asked after Theo’s rant.

“I did not bite my thumb at you, Blaise, but I did, in fact, bite my thumb,” came Theo’s haughty reply.

“Merlin help us all,” Daphne groaned while the rest of them laughed.

–

Friday, 10 Sept., 1:15pm

How Draco found himself intentionally displaying his bare arm to a Weasley was beyond his comprehension.

What was even more mind-boggling was that Weasley didn’t sneer when he saw the Mark, willingly touched Draco’s arm without disgust, and still seemed non-judgemental. Even friendly. The nerve.

When Draco arrived at Bill’s office fifteen minutes earlier, Bill had said, “In here, I can either be your professor or just another Weasley. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Draco was surprised he’d been given the choice. “I suppose that depends on whether you’re willing to risk hearing accidental snark and frigidity,” he’d drawled.

Bill had only laughed. “If that’ll help you feel more comfortable, go ahead. Even if it’s not accidental, I’m not going to take points or give detention for anything that happens in here. So snark and sneer away.”

Draco had said nothing to that. He had nothing. This man perplexed him. He didn’t trust Bill – or, rather, not fully. Not even half. Yet, anyway. And probably wouldn’t for a long time, if ever. But that was still a hell of a lot more than he trusted anyone who wasn’t his friend or his mother. He supposed he could also somewhat count Potter, oddly enough.

So why had he pushed his sleeve up when he was asked to?

That was when Bill held out his left hand, silently asking for Draco’s arm. His movements had been slow and deliberate, treating the skittish blond like a cornered dragon. Just like Charlie taught him. “This can get quite personal. It may feel like your privacy’s being invaded.”

That had snapped Draco out of his thoughts. He’d peered down at the open hand and let himself sneer. “Oh, is it not already?” His snark had surprisingly gotten another laugh out of Bill. Weasley? Draco couldn’t get a grip on what his brain wanted to call him. He reluctantly raised his arm, also with his palm up, and let Weasley take hold of his wrist, which was when he’d noticed the lack of disgust in the other man.

Success. “Sorry, no, you’re right. I guess I mean it might get more personal. I’ve never done this on a living being, but I do know how to search for and remove Dark Magic. It’ll just be a bit of trial and error in figuring out how to do it best on a person.”

The assurance was… barely enough to cut off Draco’s rising trepidation. “Why isn’t Potter your first test subject?”

“He wants to wait until next week, but I was hoping to get a head start on your Mark since its nature was so volatile.”

Draco nearly gaped at him. Nearly; Malfoys and Blacks don’t gape. “Are you joking? He literally got hit with Avada on his head as a baby. I’d think that would take precedence.”

Bill smiled gently. “That was a rebounded curse, and he had protection magic surrounding him. You didn’t. Draco, we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do anything. Or should I still call you Malfoy?”

“Shut up.”

Bill grinned at the grumbled words and took them as Draco saying the use of his first name was okay. They held no actual malice or rudeness, and he didn’t have to be werewolf-afflicted to know that; he’d always been good at reading people. Still moving somewhat slowly, Bill touched his wand to the faded mark - but didn’t get the chance to cast the diagnostic.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath and froze, holding it in his chest with terrified eyes. His heart was frantic. He was suddenly in the ground floor study of Malfoy Manor. Voldemort’s wand was on his arm, digging in, carving the Mark into his skin. He was screaming. He was… he was... not... feeling any pain.

He blinked. He was in Bill’s office at Hogwarts. He wasn’t receiving the Mark. Voldemort was dead. He heard his name. He noticed there wasn’t a wand near his arm anymore. He looked up into the kind, brown eyes of Bill Weasley. His heart started calming down.

“Draco? Are you back with me?”

A shaky nod was all Draco could do.

“Good. Was that how he gave it to you?” Another nod. “Okay. No more wands touching your arm, promise. Sit.” Draco sat. Bill pulled his chair over and sat in front of him. “I’m so sorry that was triggering.” He received a head shake with a clenched jaw and took that as Draco saying it was alright. “Do you think you can handle my wand hovering over the Mark?”

Draco swallowed and nodded. The pressure from Bill’s hand holding his wrist was grounding him. He focused his breathing into longer, steadier breaths.

“Good,” Bill praised. “Keep doing that. Your heartbeat is slowing.”

Draco surprised himself with a short laugh, and suddenly he was able to speak again. “That should also be triggering. I don’t know why it isn’t.”

“What?”

“Your senses. Because of Greyback.”

“Ah. Shit, I didn’t even think of that. But I’m glad it’s not triggering.” His eyes widened a touch. “Wait, he hurt you?”

Draco clammed up and shook his head in a jerking way that clearly stated that yes, Greyback did hurt him and no, he wasn’t going to talk about it.

“Would you like tea? Coffee? Whisky? Before we try again?”

Draco’s brows rose as his eyes focused on Bill’s. “Are you really offering alcohol to a student?”

Bill grinned. “You’re nineteen. And in here, you’re not my student.”

“I thought that was my choice.”

“Yeah, well, I decided to make the choice for you.”

The perplexing ginger flashed Draco a smile. Draco didn’t know what to do with any of this. “Going back on your word isn’t very Gryffindor of you.”

“You aren’t fighting it, I noticed,” Bill snarked right back. He grinned when he got a deadpan stare in return. “I can tell it’ll be easier for us both if we interact this way. So, would you like anything to drink?”

“Weasleys,” he grumbled, shaking his head while Bill chuckled. “No. Thank you.”

“Ready to try again?” When Draco nodded, Bill moved much more slowly with his wand and ran diagnostics. He kept an ear out for the younger man’s heart rate, but while it did increase, there were no more flashbacks.

–

Friday, 10 Sept., 3:10pm

Draco flopped face down onto his bed with his legs hanging off, jostling Pansy and Blaise. Theo was sitting at his desk and Greg on the floor with his back against the wall. “Where’s Daphne?”

The door opened and in waltzed the redhead in question. “I go to the loo for five minutes and of course that’s when you decide to show up.” She sat down next to Draco’s thighs, displacing Blaise with a grumble as he shifted to the other pillow. She flicked the closest thigh with a finger. Hard.

“OW! I didn’t do anything to you!”

“You shouldn’t’ve come back during the miniscule amount of time I was in the loo.”

“Like that’s my fault, you slag. OW! Cut it out!”

“I’ve been sitting here for two hours waiting for your arse, worried sick, and you call me a slag.” Daphne huffed.

“As if we’re chopped liver,” Pansy muttered, still on her back next to Draco.

“Wait, we’re not?” Greg asked so seriously that no one but those in the room would know he was joking. It made them all burst into laughter.

Blaise lightly shoved Draco’s shoulder. “Turn over. Lift your head. Then tell us what happened.”

Draco groaned but obeyed. Soon, the back of his head was in Blaise’s lap with a pillow lodged under his neck. Thank Merlin; now his legs could bend and hang off the bed without pain. He loved Blaise. “Weasley found traces.”

His friends quieted, the sound deafening to his ears. This was the outcome they’d all been dreading.

Theo was the first to speak. “How dire is it? Is it harming you? If not, can it harm you in the future?”

Bless Theo. He always knew how to get Draco talking when the topic was difficult, and what to say or ask when the others were too afraid to. “It’s not terrible. But not good, either. He isn’t sure because he’s only assessed it once. He said he’ll do research and let me know if he finds something. I’ll see him next week, regardless.” He didn’t tell them that Potter was going through the same thing. That wasn’t their business.

He felt Daphne’s hand squeeze his thigh. Pansy slipped her hand into his. Blaise’s fingers slowly threaded through his hair until his palm came to rest on his head. Theo crossed the room and sat on the floor by his leg. He felt Greg lean against his other leg. Their warmth transferred straight to his heart. It was already bad enough that he’d carry the Mark forever. Now he knew it still held some of Voldemort’s magic. He was stained, tainted. But at least he had his friends.

–

Friday, 10 Sept., 7pm

I used a curse on you without knowing what it was. I really truly really didn’t know what it did, but that’s no excuse. The curse was written in the margins and said it was “for enemies”. And it almost killed you.

I almost killed you.

“Sorry” doesn’t isn’t and will never cut it. be enough. But I am. I’m so unbelievably sorry.

Harry scratched out ‘cut it’ after cringing at the word choice. He let out a deep sigh and put his pen down. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, held it for a few seconds, and released it slowly just like his therapist had shown him. Or rather, Mind Healer. When he went back to the letter, he tried the stream of consciousness technique again and it worked.

He’d crossed out a lot of things and reworded countless sentences over the last week, but he finally had something he was ready to send.

Was he happy with it? Not at all. But it was ready. He duplicated it so he’d have a copy, charmed it to be invisible to anyone but Malfoy, and spelled it away. He watched with mounting anxiety as it slipped under his door on its way to its recipient just down the hall.